Let Forever Be
by Food Service Girl
Summary: A naughty little “what if” story, the twist being -what if- Edward the Black Prince did NOT show up to save the day... Chaucer's POV. Contains slash [mm] and het parings.
1. One

Pairings: attempted Will/Geoff, Will/Jocelyn, Roland/Christina, et cetera...

It's Chaucer's Point Of View, Post-Will/father scene, pre-'Intervention'.

I hear the first tolling of the Angelus bells(1) and a small smile spread across my face. It's been six month's since I've heard that sweet ringing. It's just another little reminder that I'm home, but I'm glad to hear it.

The sound is mixed and muted by the barking of the near-feral dogs on the docks of the River Thames, the early cries of roosters, and everything else that's trying to make its presence known on this humid morning. The sun's rays have barely touched the horizon, but by all accordance and the laws of Angelus, the good, common persons of London should already be up.

The noise has startled me out of a daze, a self-induced method that I use to ignore this lovely little headache I've had since Bordeaux. When I finally hear the ringing with my clear head and sound mind, I realize it's later than I had thought. Or would it be earlier, considering it's a new day now? The headache has left me thoroughly confused, and I'm hoping for some great enlightenment to wake me up. Angelus first rings for early morning mass –a bothersome I haven't been a part of in years- and the end of the night watch.

Speaking of the law... through the grubby windows and tattered curtains, I can just make out the figure of a lone constable prowling the streets. A brave act, considering this side of London isn't too fond of his sort. He's not the same one that I saw when I entered the tavern, though. No, that one was of a mean type, with a scar running down his face and blank eyes. This one looks rather decent in the blue and brass.

From the distance, I see he's got a cocky smirk on his tender lips. I shift in my seat and find that I'm craving to wipe it away with a tender kiss. He's maybe seven years younger than me, but I still want to devour him up. The uniform is cut quite nicely, emphasizing the right parts and revealing to me broad shoulders. He's probably from a family of relative wealth, because I notice sliver buckles on his boots and a full purse attached to his belt. It would also explain his arrogance and the lack of any sort of weapon besides the gilded dagger on his thigh and the baton he keeps twirling.

As he walks –no, he's the sort who strides- closer towards my window and a hurried man that stands near it, I calmly observe that he'd probably look even better without a stitch on. Now if only I wasn't feeling as horrid as I am... I'd probably strike up a conversation with this man. He looks the type...

I close my eyes and struggle to shake those pleasant thoughts out of my mind. Then, when I've finally clear my mind, I try to asses my current circumstances. It was raining when I first entered the tavern, but apparently it had stopped. All that was left were the muddy and garbage-filled streets. How long have I been gone, then?

Briefly, I wonder if anyone's missed me. Wat? Well, if only to try to berate and kick my shin a few good times; or as that fine man would put it, "fong me". Kate? We've been traveling together for months and I feel I still hardly know the girl. Roland? Yes, I forgot about his –err, well, our argument. Something to do with a mincemeat pie...

That left Geoff and my blond Lord. I chew on my bottom lip, thinking about my mixed emotions towards the two. With a startling revelation that makes me hate myself even more, I realize that I'm actually the former. Such a fool. And the latter... I forgot I didn't want to brood over that particular boy tonight.

What was I thinking about before than, before my little day dream? Roland's mincemeat pie? What the hell would I want with a mincemeat pie? As I'm starting to remember the reason why I've been sitting here, alone, in this miserable excuse for a tavern, I lean back in my chair. Yes, there's the creaking noise that warns me it's going to give out under my weight. It'd be best to ignore that. But pie?

"And if only I had one now...," I mumble after my belly lets out a particularly loud complaint. What shall I have to break fast, than? Instincts tell me, considering the state of this tavern and the looks of the serving girls, that anything I were to try to consume would probably taste of rat droppings, or worse. Most likely worse.

Deciding to skip the first meal, I instead take a quick survey my fellow patrons. The delightful, stinking occupants of...what was the name? I can't quite remember the picture painted on the warped sign above the main door, it appears in my mind now as a faded red splotch on a white background. But hell, I can barely remember my own name... ah, yes, the Fine Fox.

We're a lovely bunch, those of us in this particular tavern. Even though it's nigh five o'clock in the morning, it has patrons. The serving girls are still prancing around the common room with their puckered lips and powdered faces—to hide the bruises or the pox, I haven't decided which yet- though they are more dour and weary than before. They've been serving all night and are waiting for the next shift so they can go home and soak their calloused feet.

The last of the Cyprians are lined up in the middle of the room, each more suggestive than the last, still trying to attract a potential john. Or if they finally have one, they're sitting on that man's lap, smiling wide, trying to hide the syphilis they've contracted because of their very work.

The real gents –the young, grinning princes- with their embroidered tunics and polished swords sit together in the middle, not too far off from the women or the bar. These are the ones who decided to go slumming for the night and then well into morn'. While they've been sampling the local brandy –a vile concoction that I've managed to choke down more than once- they've attracted all forms of the pickpocket because they forgot to hide their golden splendor. It makes me smile a little more. At least I won't be the only one suffering later on because of a night in the Fox.

And there are other men here, too, besides the foolhardy lord-lings. They are common men who sit around crowded tables, enjoying a pint with their friends after a long evening on the night shift. I despise these men, for they seem to hold no imagination at all. They follow the same routine nearly everyday –wake, set off to their respective jobs, slug one back at the Fox, go home, beat their wives into submission, sleep. Except for the occasional brawl, that is all they ever do. At the moment though, I don't know who to pity more though, them or me...

Least common in the Fox are those like me- men without girls in their arms or friends at their sides. We take up the individual tables along the wall, staring into our rum or ale, wishing we weren't. I've studied each of these men, just as they've considered me. We're the kind of men who don't like our own breed. We're the ones who pray for a knife in a dark alley to slice our throats and end that particular misery known as life.

I run a hand through my short locks and act as dramatic as I can. I let out a sigh and swirl the contents of my mug around; I'm really caught up in the moment now. The real reason why I was here was because I didn't want anybody I knew to see me like this. I just couldn't take it anymore, and with a straight face.

He's probably out with his lady right now... I let my finger trace over one particularly annoying engraving on the table. And why shouldn't he be? He's happy isn't he; a lot more happy than he'd ever be with me. My fingernail follows the mark all the way up to where my mug of ale is sitting. With a dejected sigh, I pick it up and finish it off in one last swig.

As the last few droplets pass over my tongue, I notice a group of men circled 'round a table in a darker corner of the oh-so-luminous tavern. They've got a particular look to them -anxious, restless, and apprehensive. My look. I've indeed found a group of brothers. Men, who otherwise wouldn't talk to each other, united with one common passion –gambling.

I take another quick glimpse around the common room. I've found that after years of gambling, I could figure out what game was popular just by the appearance of the tavern. Seedy, frayed wall-hangings, chipped dishware, and a distinct, foul odor I can't quite place... like rotting fish and pig shit. That's the one. And according to this grubby little portion of London that we're located in, I'd bet they're playing Put & Take. I mentally run the rules over my head. It's been a while since I've been allowed to gamble –thank you m'lord, let alone play a decent game.

Spin the top –or rather, the scopperil(2), and according to how it landed, you either put a copper piece in, depone; take one out, aufer; do nothing, nihil; or win the whole pot, totum.

It's an easy game, I'll admit, but it was starting to get to me. I could hear their scopperil hitting the table, and the men rubbing their silver and copper pieces together, for luck. To play or not to play...it's so tempting. I'm fighting the overpowering urge to relocate myself to a seat at their table and join in on the gaming. I can feel my own well-worn scopperil piece in my purse. The letters are nearly faded, but it could still hold up for a few more rounds. I finger it, for luck.

I stare down at my own table and try to ignore how my fingers are twitching and that my heart's beating faster than normal. I draw in a few shallow lungfulls of air and convince myself that I really am trying my best to resist. Where's Wat when you need him? A good fonging would suit me right about now. Or where's Roland or Kate for that matter? Or Wil-at. Wat. What the hell am I doing in this tavern all by myself, anyway?

Before I could contemplate this any further, a man comes bursting in through the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it is the very constable I had been admiring earlier. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wild. Everyone in the rundown tavern seems to realize that something was amiss because suddenly everything goes still. Even the lord-lings stop their petty flirting to see what the matter is.

The young constable still stands there in the doorframe, panting as if he's trying to catch his breath. To some minor disappointment, I see his smirk is gone and his luscious lips are instead stretched into a repulsive grimace. I realize he's, in all probability, nervous. We –the gathered scum of London- are all staring intently at his lone self.

"Well," I say softly, but with enough force to be heard throughout the room. "Spit it out then."

He stammers on about something, and I find he's not quite as striking as I had originally thought. He doesn't have my gift of speech; though many people don't, but he could at least talk above that ghastly whisper if he wanted people to hear him proper...I'm starting to ignore my man when a few chance words catch my ears,

"Lord...found out he's not, he's not who he's been claimin'... He's a sham, a liar. They saw he's a Thatcher's son." He says these last words bitterly, and at once I know who he's talking about.

After my heart falls to the floor, there's first the sound of three copper pieces hitting the wooden table and then the tavern bursting into an outrage. Suddenly, I find myself stalking across the common room and brushing past the constable. If I had cared, I would have noted that he really wasn't that appealing to me now, kind of ugly in fact, but those nasty thoughts were long out of my mind. I do stop, however, to ask a brief question,

"Did they arrest him yet, man?" I try not to let the urgency slip in.

"Wha-what?" He manages to stutter. He's baffled and confused and probably doesn't know the answer to my question. It doesn't hurt to ask though...

"Lord Ulrich, or what ever his proper name is; did they catch him? As in, is he in jail?" my voice cracks over the last word and I wince.

He's eyeing me up and down, as I had done earlier to him. I'm sure he's starting to remember me from the parade. He at least has to recognize the coat. How many other men in all of London own one of these, and then actually wear it in public(3)?

Luckily, he doesn't say as much. My man merely shakes his head. I hold my hand out to his, and when he touches mine, I let two more coppers pass from my palm to his. My purse is a lot lighter than I intended it to be when I first walked into the Fox.

He's confused, I can see. He's lot younger than I thought if he doesn't understand the game, yet, wealthy or not. I release his hand, though, and continue out onto the muddy streets.

The sun had nearly risen over the horizon, illuminating the puddles, making them seem like large teardrops. The heavens knew... they were crying for him last night. When I'm in a state like I am now, I start to become highly over dramatic and my mind makes connections that otherwise never would have occurred to me. It's great when you're a writer, but horrible when you're trying to live out life.

My headache's gone. I calmly note as I step over a sizeable brook that's collected in the middle of the street. And then with a clear mind, I start to wonder how we're going get him safely of this fix. So they've finally figured us out. I've got to find everyone... get everyone out of London. Especially him. I need to get him out of London. It'll be the stocks first and then the gallows, and I refuse to let that happen to him, or to any of us.

I've made promises to myself before. I was going to stop gambling. I was going to be more faithful to the wife(4). I was going to, well, I was going to confess my feelings to a certain blond-haired knig- No, I shan't be using that word- My blond William.

No, but this, this was a real promise. A vow, a pledge, an oath. Pick any word, none of them would suffice. This was much bigger. I would not see him hang...But then, how do I save him?

Jocelyn. She'll know what to do.

1. Real. Not quite what they used in the movie post Will/Father scene –zooming into stadium but I think it still applies :)

2. Also known as a teetotum or a jenny-spinner, they look like the Jewish dreidel.

3. I love that coat. It is seriously pimpin'

4. Deleted scenes on the DVD or in any biography of Geoffrey Chaucer... Knowledge Is Power!

Disclaimer: A Knight's Tale belongs to Columbia Pictures, not me. "Let Forever Be" belongs to the Chemical Brothers. All other characters, unless noted, are mine. Yah for creativity! Yah for people who review/hint


	2. Two

Pairings: MINOR, MINOR, MINOR Geoff/O.C., attempted Will/Geoff, Will/Jocelyn, Roland/Christina, et cetera...

IMPORTANT: Italics thoughts of character.

It's Chaucer's Point Of View, Post-Will/father scene, pre-'Intervention'.

Sorry for the long delay; homework, a rotary conference, a civil war reenactment muskets are HEAVY, and various other things have kept me busy. I would just like to say that any new characters I introduce actually do have parts later on in the story; I'm not describing them for the heck of it. And also, I'd like to give a big thanks to my reviewers – Seascribe & SpotsShadow94!

Jocelyn, Jocelyn, Jocelyn... I'm finding it's quite hard to locate someone without a curse-ed address, or at least not knowing said address. A surname, perhaps, would help; something else besides that wretchedly beautiful girl's name. And my lord had to work so hard to obtain that little bit from his lady, too. I'm wondering, is she a Jocelyn or a Jezebel?

Ah, if only to hold a pry-bar in my hands. I would've pried out all of the scandal from this girl -including her London address- long ago, and I would be without all of this dastardly searching.

If I had the time, I would have gone down to the fairgrounds and gossiped up some of the more... accommodating maids. They're likely to give up their lady's secrets with the assistance of a shinny bauble or a pretty ribbon. A surname would have been all too easy to unearth, considering my loose tongue and silver fingers. Or is it the other way 'round?

But seeing as how I have neither time nor trinket, I instead find myself near-aimlessly strolling down a walkway on a side of London that could no more different from Cheapside than a fish to a bird.

There are houses, for sure, and people inside of them. A house of the size I'm used to could fit inside of their solar. I would like to be able to walk a bit slower and admire these manor-houses made of brick and stone -stone!- and wood, a far cry from the daub and wattle of Cheapside. I can imagine the furniture inside, all imports of course. Couches from France, fine rugs from Persia, silver and incenses from Naples, and any and everything else money or the mind could conjure up from all over the Holy Roman and Ottoman Empires.

I can see people inside of these houses of splendor through their glass windows –glass!-. The ladies are sitting in the solar with their maids at hand, just settling into a day of embroidery and gossip. Younger children adorn the floors, playing games with porcelain dolls and soldiers of copper and tin. The lords and older children are off to their respective jobs and universities.

At the moment, I'm not sure as to whether I want to be envious or sad because of these people. They have wealth I could never one day hope to posses or even dream of, and that, I'll admit, does make me a little jealous. But at the same time... at the same time I've just remembered that I have my lord to look after.

With that thought, I quickened my pace. Even the walkways are different... is that? Some sort of limestone? Compared to the muddy streets of Cheapside, it actually is like walking across big plates of glass. Ah, the woes and perils of being rich. I'm actually surprised that one of the patrolmen –hired thugs who hold a grudge against the common man- haven't caught me yet and kicked me out of the neighborhood. This is defiantly not my side of town.

As I round a corner and enter a small business district, I notice a relatively large cathedral not far off. Its stained-glass windows glisten against the sun, which has finally risen over the London skyline. I can just make out the statues that adorn the various ledges around the cathedral. They're definitely not up to the liberal standards of the great statues of Italy – pure pornography, those are. These are conservative, clothed, and of the Virgin Mary, the Lord Jesus, and what may or may not be Peter. John, David, Peter, Paul, Simon –they all look the same to me.

Yes... to be rich and enjoy the luxury of the comfortable life. I'm finding myself wondering at the great wall-hangings inside depicting this saint, that martyr, and those Holy Cow Droppings. Then I notice the pigeons that are perched on its bell-tower, relieving themselves of their early breakfast, and defiling this house of God. I have to smile, at least a little.

Jocelyn... she's one of those Catholics, or half of my lord's encounters with her were on pure happenstance. Yes, the morning mass is still being held, I'll can bet she's probably in some church right now, enjoying that eye-candy of our Lord and Savior perched eternally on that cross. Seeing as how that cathedral's right there, those sumptuous houses are behind me –the lady is a Lady, after all, and I'm somewhere in the middle... I'd be better to check that out.

It's quite amazing how I can go from the grandeur of the wealthy to the moderate dealings of the middle class with a mere crossing of a cart and peasant-ridden street.

The houses here are considerably smaller, and the merchants who live in them are displaying their wares behind small windows on the first floors of their very own homes. I can even see it on the streets, how the level of maintenance has gone down –there is a ditch that runs down the middle of the road for people to throw their trash in, as opposed to the servants of the wealthy who would have to walk down here to do the dumping. And if this were Cheapside, I'd be treading lightly for the ditch would be overflowing onto the walkways.1

Well, I am finding myself walking with more carefully, for the causeways are rather crowed –I've discovered myself in a small market it seems. The lower-class citizens are out on the side streets peddling their merchandise, besides the craftsmen who sell their goods out of their shops. It's all adding up to a giant traffic jam, and for one such as myself who's holding his lord's life on his very own finger tips, it's frustrating, to say in the least.

I make my way past the vendors and hustlers, my coat billowing behind me.

Dramatics, dramatics, dramatics... yes, 'round that posy cart2 –say a prayer so the good plague doesn't return. I am rather sick of the smell of fresh flowers and rotting flesh. Skip past the baker-chap. Mmm... a pastry does sound decent about now... focus, focus, focus. What's that old woman selling? From India, then? It's pretty fabric but the embroidery's rather shoddy. It'd be nice to see my lord in it one day, though. Careful, now. Watch out for those ruffians, look like pickpockets, dirty little horrors. Ohh... what's that noise? Sounds horrible. What is that he's playing? A lute? Quite exotic.3 Well, it's is out of tune. What is he singing? Sounds familiar. Is that Francesca Petrarca? Rather brave of him, considering these parts.

Recently, London has been less tolerant towards the great lyric-poets of other countries. The middle class, especially, had decided that the only music that's acceptable to them was the tunes that were produced with the Tower of London in heart and more importantly -sight. I'd like to blame it on the first plague; it separated us from the rest of the world, leaving the old, distrustful, and the young, restless.4

Distracted, even though this is probably the worst time for music, I stop for a moment and listen to the man who's playing the lute, sing,

"The soft west wind, returning, brings again  
Its lovely family of herbs and flowers;  
Progne's gay notes and Philomela's strain  
Vary the dance of springtide's rosy hours;  
And joyously o'er every field and plain  
Glows the bright smile that greets them from above,  
And the warm spirit of reviving love  
Breathes in the air and murmurs from the main.  
But tears and sorrowing sighs, which gushingly  
Pour from the secret chambers of my heart,  
Are all that spring returning brings to me;  
And in the modest smile, or glance of art,  
The song of birds, the bloom of heath and tree,  
A desert's rugged tract and savage forms I see."5

He has a nice voice, among the other things that the good Lord God doesn't want me thinking about. The man is wearing a coat of faded brown and green leather –which is quite neutral in these parts so I don't know where his loyalties lie- and darker brown trousers that look as if they're a few sizes too big. It's understandable, I've gone without meals before, but I don't think I've lost that much weight. They're rolled up, though to reveal dirty green and black stripped leggings that are splendidly tight enough for him and the casual observer like me.

He has a few other accessories – a red scarf tied loosely around his neck in a way that was only fashionable several years ago. I'm surprised, considering the scarf's length that it hasn't gotten in the way of his playing, yet. And despite a traditional green fillet that's tied around his head, keeping curly brown hair out of his dark brown eyes, his hand will occasionally reach up and brush away an imaginary lock.

He doesn't have any sort of weapon on him that I can see –what is it with these pretty boys and their foolhardy confidence? And except for his lute's case, which is left open for any coppers the fine, stingy people of London would care to donate, I don't see any other belongings with him.

As he finishes singing the last line, I discreetly walk towards him and try to pretend that I'm not studying him like I am. I'd call him a Venetian, if not for the odd accent. He seems more of the country type –one who's grown up with sheep at his side and a shepherd's staff in his hand. Unlike my fellow from before, I find this one is quite striking as I get closer.

I'm actually content enough with the fact that someone else in this town knows Petrarca, Progne, Philomela, Laura in Death. Let alone, how to put those verses to music and sing it. The lute is out of tune though, and the words are a bit gloomy for this fine, sunny day. He doesn't seem to be making much in the way of coppers, all the patrons are brushing past him, and the ones who do care are the ones without a coin to share.

As I'm about to make my final move and let myself be known to him, I realize that he's well aware of my presence, and is staring straight at me. So much for deceit and hidden motives.Abandoning any forms of subtlety I may have once possessed, I walk right up to my man and stare him directly in the eyes. He looks right back at me and continues to strum a melody on his instrument, occasionally humming in an extra beat. Again, the fingering's fine, but it's the fault of the out-of-tune lute that's making this horrible yowling noise, like two cats in the night fighting in a back-alley over scraps.

Who's to make the first move, then?

He does, giving me a brief nod of recognition and I answer him back with a few coins tossed carelessly into his lute's open case. I'm not quite sure I fully understand this exchange, but I'm still reveling in the fact that at least we had one. He'd be one for the eyes, then.

Despite what many of the "learned" people of the upper-classes say, it's been my belief that the only way to communicate isn't just with the mouth. There's the written poet -like Petrarca and I, then there's a man's spine –posture is everything, and the hands, to name a few.

It's all in the mind, of course. Give a man inspiration and he'll take the whole world in a day. But this one in front of me, he speaks through his eyes.

And I can see them now; a dark, deep brown that seems to look right through me and into some other world located just over my shoulder. I'm curious of course, I'm always curious. It's what drew me into this foolhardy journey of jousting and love, and it's what's keeping me from finding that Jocelyn and rescuing my lord. To have the body of a man and the mind of a fish is not attractive, Geoff.

As this nameless man moves his left hand up to play a higher note, I see something that would've found me shaking in my boots six months ago. Is that...? No, it couldn't be. I haven't seen that insignia in years. What would it be doing here? I thought I had just witnessed something quite strange, being a small tattoo on this man's left wrist. It's covered up by the ruffles of his undershirt's sleeves now, and unless I was to grab his arm and twist it around to me, I didn't have any chance of seeing it again. What's confusing me is that this man –boy, really- is young enough to never have heard, or care, about the events that surround this particular tattoo. I was only a boy when this happened, and I can barely remember them. Or maybe I'm just imagining thing, I am rather tense right now. But if it actually is there... the insignia of Cola di Rienzi. I can't –won't- think about that now, or what it could possible mean.6

But now I genuinely am interested, and I want to know what was going through this boy's mind when he had the insignia of a dead Roman tribune tattooed onto his left wrist. I stare right back into his eyes, trying to crack open the puzzle that is this endeavoring bard.

I try to open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. It's sad, really, that I could be flustered by this silly boy with his little tattoo. I'm imagining the drama behind it all, now, and I'm finding myself like a moth to a streetlamp: quite attracted. I don't want to jump him though, knock him out and drag him to a dark alley and do only the king knows what. Not that I'd actually do something like that to anyone, but it's nice to dream, especially when you know your lord's off with his lady.

But no, with this one... I just want to know his name. Ahh... how the fates have turned on me. But what am I to do? Leave this boy here to actually get mugged -because he does look like a bit lost- or there's the alternative... bring him along.

He's still eyeing me, or I'd like to believe he is. He's titled his head a little to the left and he's gained this faraway look, and I instantly want to know what he's thinking, why his lute is out of tune, where'd he come from, and why did he play that particular song for me –it couldn't have been for anyone else, I was clearly the only one who was enjoying it, lute or not.

I realize I've been standing on this street for far too long. My lord still knows nothing of the danger against his name – the threat that promises to swallow him up and spit him out a broken man. And Jocelyn, I still need to locate her before Adhemar does and whispers his dirty lies into her pristine ears.

I'm torn between two choices, my lord and his life or this boy and his tattoo. He's still staring blankly over my head, strumming on his lute. The noise isn't half-as bad as it was, but I think it's because I'm ignoring it more now.

"Geoffrey Chaucer. A pleasure to meet you. That's a lovely song you just played."

We share a slight smile, his in his eyes and in a curt nod of his head, mine on my lips and the way I wrap my fingers around the fringe on my coat. It's our moment, and none of the other people of London are any wiser as to what just occurred.

1. That is how streets looked like, with a shallow ditch that ran through and two walkways on the side. The ditch was where people threw their waste matter and such. It was a good idea but it just wasn't cleaned enough, and would eventually contribute significantly to the Black Plague. Could you imagine a place like Cheapside? I'm just glad they weren't historically accurate in the movie!

2. Yes, a reference to "Ring around the Rosy", which I do realize has absolutely nothing to do with the Plague.

3. Considering lutes would become popular in London only about one hundred years later :P

4. N/T not true

5. Petrarch's Sonnet XLII: The Spring Only Renews His Grief. I didn't put it in its original format Latin because I can not speak/write that language. Expect a lot of Italian literature mentioned, especially the big three: Petrarch, Alighieri, Boccaccio. and especially Boccaccio, because Chaucer would eventually go on to use one of the tales in the Decamerone as 'inspiration' for one in the Canterbury. Props if you know which!

6. If you know what his insignia is, please tell me! I'm going to have to make something up otherwise! Oh, I'll explain more about Cola later in the story. He's a bit of an inspiration to me!

Disclaimer: A Knight's Tale belongs to Columbia Pictures, not me. "Let Forever Be" belongs to the Chemical Brothers. All other characters, unless noted, are mine.

6/24/05 note: i just went through this and got rid of all the italics because i seenow a year later that they arean annoyance.i'm working on the fourth chapter. yeah, it's been a while. finally, i will still continue to say that the black plauge and ring around the rosie still do not mix!


	3. Three

Pairings: MINOR, MINOR, MINOR Geoff/O.C., attempted Will/Geoff, Will/Jocelyn, Roland/Christina, et cetera...

It's Chaucer's Point Of View, Post-Will/father scene, pre-'Intervention'.

Comments to reviewers are at the end.

* * *

"How long have you been in town?" I ask as I carefully lean over and pick a stray petal from the posy cart out of his hair. I pretend to be interested in my new "find", examining it and tracing its thin veins with a fingernail. I'm really staring right over it and into his eyes. I'm not sure why, any and all reason or logic seems to have escaped me now,

"I mean, you are new here, right? I usually remember you bard-types, and I can't recall ever meeting you. I have been absent from the city for a while, though."

He nods again, and I form my doubts. For if he had not sung that lovely piece, I probably would hold him as a mute.

"That's an interesting instrument you're playing there. A lute, right? I've never really seen one up close."

A light breeze suddenly passes through the streets and I wrap my coat around me. It isn't exactly the warmest thing to wear, with fall fast approaching. This bard –this mute with a lute- is actually wearing a coat that's disturbingly similar to mine, but yet, he doesn't seem to be bothered by the change in temperature.

"Eirik," He says suddenly, and I'm confused until he clarifies for me, "My name is Eirik Snorrison."

Except it sounds more like, 'Mae nahme es Earric Snoarrehson', and I realize he's not at all Venetian; maybe from one of the northern kingdoms of Norway or Sweden.

He doesn't look like he's from the north, that's just it. And why didn't he have that accent before? Another piece to add to the puzzle. This one might be more infuriating to figure out than my Lord, and that's quite a feat. But all the same...

I try to hide my growing curiosity and continue to question my man, "And how long have you been visiting this charming district?"

Now he frowns, as if he can't quite find the right words, "Two? Two sunrises I've been here."

Again: 'Tew sun'ises I'd ben 'ere."

I wince and try to ignore it, just as I've been ignoring the off-key strumming that continues in the background. As I wonder where my finely-educated lute player with the lovely voice has gone to, I notice that there are watchmen coming our way. I see they're not really looking for us or me, but I notice a keen, knowing look in their eyes. I may not be at my best right now, but I've got enough wits about me to recognize it's probably the one that's in reserve for my lord.

Ahh... that's right... Such a fool, Geoff. The rope is being strung in the gallows and my lord, he hasn't a clue. Here I am chatting it up with this young attractive, where's my decency? Left back in Paris with my clothes and pride, then.

The fiercely armed watchmen –and I realize that they might be royal guards for they have several extra layers of armor- notice my man playing his lute. Well, first they notice his attire and the "oh-so-calculating" expression on his face, then the open case, and finally the lute. I find that waves of emotions are going over their faces: gluttony, greed, envy, wrath; a melting pot of the deadly sins. They all seem to be sharing the same single-thought mind. One moment they're almost all the way down the block, and the next, they're pushing and shoving their way towards this little concert.

I turn to... Eirik, was it? "Get your permit out." I wave a finger at the approaching men. "Those agreeable gents intend to see if it's up to their standards."

The blank -blanker- expression on his face tells me what I'd feared,

"You have a permit, right?"

He doesn't. Why'd I even ask? I already knew he didn't.

I continue anyway, "A musician's permit? Did you go to the guild master and get a little slip of paper that says you can play? Play your instrument. The lute. A rounded device with strings. That thing in your hands." I furiously point and wonder if he's purposely ignoring me, if he's really quite daft, or if he just doesn't know enough English to grasp what the bloody hell I'm saying,

"You need that permit to play on the streets. If you don't have it you could get arrested, as we're are about to be." We?

Half of the guards have nearly reached us. The other half, I can see, are heading around the street as if to block out any escape paths. I throw my hands up and let out an exasperated sigh.

"Days," the great bard said softly.

I turn to him, "What did you say?"

"I've been here for two days, not sunrises." He's smiling and nodding as if he's just performed a musical masterpiece in front a royal audience.

I blink once, then again.

Quite daft. I wonder why he's allowed out on his own. Another reason why I can't let the guards get him; I doubt he's able to get himself out of his own nightclothes, let alone this mess. This means taking him with me, with us. Well, at least Wat will have someone on the same level to talk to now.

"Hey, you," someone says roughly out of nowhere, interrupting my thoughtful attack on a certain man's character.

You. Of course. That could only be one person on these crowded streets in a city of thousands.

Eirik, as the fates would have it. I realize we're now surrounded by five or six of those disgruntled men.

"Yes," I say pleasantly, turning to them with what I hope doesn't look like a rather strained smile. It's barely been an hour since my last encounter with the law, and I hope this one doesn't turn out worse.

"Not you," one of the guards spits out, trying to push me aside and grab at my new friend. "Tis' the bloke we wan' now. Unlawful disturbances of the publics, ye' see."

Ah yes, he is the one you want then. To rough up a bit, steal his lute and anything in his purse, and then do who knows what to him. Yeah, these are the type who would sell out their own mothers for a bit of private time with a 'lady' and a jug of cheap liquor. I motion to Eirik to stop playing his instrument with a quick jab in the ribs, but he doesn't get the message.

"Unlawful disturbances?" I ask. "How exactly are we being unlawful, gentleman, if you would be so kind as to share this with me?" I extend my arms out, trying to be as least threatening as I can. Eirik's still playing his lute and I want to kick his shin, but this isn't the time or the place. What, with those men looking at me to be the responsible one.

Another guard: "Musician's permit. You need one if you expect to play this side of town. I'll be seeing it now. That is, if you be havin' one."

I laugh nervously. I can't leave him to a fate worse than...what's a fate worse than a mugging, a severe beating, an extended stint in jail, and then hard time on a work crew? Well, that doesn't matter. What matters is getting him –us- out of this, and then untangling my lord from his personal web of disaster.

"Yes, that permit," I'm not sure what I can say. 'We don't have one, take us away mister?' I lick my lips and take a risky chance. I grab at one of Eirik's hands, causing him to cease his infernal playing, and hold it in mine. I've finally got some sign of life from him. He's looking at me as if he was nine and I just killed his puppy, or at least severely bludgeoned it with a sharpened stick. I want to sigh again,

"You understand gentlemen, if we had known about this 'musicians permit', we would have gotten one. But you see, we've only just arrived in London a few good hours ago," Eirik looks as if he's about to protest this untruth, so I squeeze his hand tighter,

"And I was going to go buy my cousin –we're cousins by our mothers- well, I was going to buy him a nice pastry from that baker-chap over there," I point him out, "yes that's the one. And well, I hate to advertise this to you, considering it's rather personal, but my cousin here, he's not quite right in the mind.

I told him not to play his instrument in the streets –he's going to give a performance at my mother's house so we had to take it along- but I told him, and he didn't listen. I was trying to get him to put it back in its case when you fine gentlemen came along. And now that you know our story, and mother-dearest is expecting, I think it'd be best if we just went on our way."

I'm smiling the entire time I'm talking, and encouraging Eirik to smile along with me, and maybe put his lute away. But he's not partaking in any of this and the guards are watching us rather impatiently.

"He's lying," a voice says and my hopes fade, but the cheery grin remains. If that's Eirik, I swear by all that I hold dear to me... no, who's that, then? A new man, possibly someone of a higher rank, had appeared somewhere in the middle of my speech, and I hadn't even noticed. Geoffrey Chaucer: writer extraordinaire with wits of a fish and the bleating mouth of an ass.

"What do you mean, I'm lying? I don't lie; it's against my very nature. I'm very much a religious man, sirs, and if it hadn't been for that ghastly plague, I do imagine I'd have a rosary in my hands right now." I'm trying to sound as offended as I can; our very lives depend on it. "I do say, now that I think of it I rather take offence to that remar—"

"Quiet," the man interrupts me, and I give up on my modest lie. "I saw you not one day ago riding with your lord, Sir Ulrich of Liechtenstein."

Yes that you did. I was reporting that Adhemar was going to be competing. He was so happy. Determined to beat the snot of Adhemar, but happy. From the look of it, my lord won't be competing at all now.

It has dawned on these guards as to the prize they've caught. They know the truth behind Sir Ulrich and how he's nothing more than a Thatcher's son. Some of them have probably heard the tale twice over, once in a tavern and then again from their superiors as they were getting ready for the day's rounds.

They never thought that they would be a part of the group who caught up with this liar. Well, they've caught the liar's herald, actually. His lowly, foolish herald. There's probably some sort of reward, there usually is. These men around me, except for Eirik of course, are all probably plotting on how they're going to spend it. I see more of them looking at me as if they were trying to locate a price written somewhere on my body.

I open my mouth and then close it again. Words… they are like water running through my hands.

"I have a permit," someone says, and I don't realize it's my Eirik until he forces his hand from mine and starts fumbling around in his purse. He pulls out a bit of parchment and proudly shows it off to the guards,

"See," he says, and I do. It has the insignia of the guild master and everything else to make it perfectly legal. What's confusing me though is that he's lost the bloody accent, again.

Nobody seems to care though, that Eirik has finally gotten his wits about himself again. The guards certainly don't see the parchment that's being waved in front of them. All they see is the bonus money they could cash in if they caught the lying Thatcher's son. I can't hold it against them either, I'd probably be doing the same thing if I was in their collective shoes and I had just caught a villain. So much for morals and ethics.

Just when it looked like the guards were about to make their move, another "mysterious voice" entered the lovely conversation. Except this one was distinctly feminine and rather, to put it lightly, disgruntled,

"What do you think you're doing? Unhand these men."

I turn to see my savior, and find it's the one and only Lady Jocelyn. She's sitting in a small horse-drawn carriage. She's dressed in… well, another one of her spectacular outfits that it's better not to describe and just imagine. To her side I see Roland's heartthrob and the lady's maid, Christina.

Of all coincidence, why her, my lord's lady? I don't dwell on this thought long; I'm becoming more absorbed in the fact that she may have just saved my life. These guards at least recognize the fact that this lady is a Lady, and take a few steps back from us.

The Lady Jocelyn doesn't seem a least bit concerned for my wellbeing, rather, she appears to be more interested in why a dozen or so royal guards would be on the streets and blocking her path of travel. She signals to a footservant to help her out of the carriage. When her feet touch the ground, she immediately makes her way towards the center of this quarrel –me.

"What pray tell is going on here? What reason do you have to cause me to be late to my next appointment? I am a very busy, important person and I refuse to be subjected to your petty squabbling."

It's an act of course; I can see it in her eyes. Jocelyn can be snobbish sometimes, but she'd never throw such a fit for the entire world to see. Foxy lady, indeed.

The leader of the guard stutters, "M'lady, these men are criminals. They're part of an illegal outfit meant to debase all nobility and God's very word. The Lord Almighty chose his house and the King chose his lords. This scum means to defile these beliefs and take command of the royal hold."

The Lady's eyebrows rise a bit before she cuts in, "Is it treason you speak of, for you are talking in circles."

"No, well, no and yes-"

"-which is it then?"

"M'lady, this man's liege is none other than Sir Ulrich Von Lichtenstein." He paused for a moment to see how Lady Jocelyn would react.

"I am very aware of that fact. Is there a point, or do you just enjoy arresting nobleperson's servants. If that is the case," a tight smile is on her lips as she turned back towards Christina, "You'd best be along before they decide come after you."

"But that's exactly it, m'lady. Sir Ulrich isn't a Sir at all. He and his band are said to be commoners who've been making a mockery of the noble houses."

Jocelyn's nose wrinkles a bit, "I'm wondering, who's exactly been doing the 'saying' in this matter. Probably a competitor of Sir Ulrich set on defaming his house and taking him out of the tourney. What proof do you have? Filthy, dirty lies."

I'm trying to make eye contact with her, but she's intent on the leader. She doesn't want them to know I mean more to her than just being her lord's flamboyant herald.

"Oh, but it's all quite true, beloved Jocelyn." I look behind the Lady to see Count Adhemar riding in on a black horse. He looks rather pleased about something, and I fear whatever news he has, it won't be good for my lord,

"I followed "Sir" Ulrich last night to Cheapside and met his father. He's the son of a Thatcher, you do realize. He's not any sort of lord, Ulrich is a liar and a definite fool."

As Count Adhemar dismounts from his horse, I finally catch her glance and with a sharp nod, I confirm the rumor.

"It can't be true," protests Jocelyn.

"But it is, dearest," Adhemar continues with the smallest hint of intimacy in his voice, "You've been deceived by this Ulrich –if that even is his name."

He wraps his arm around Jocelyn's waist, "But it is all completely true. I think you'd better go back to your father's home. The wedding...," he pauses dramatically and I inhale sharply. "The wedding is only in a few days and my mother has been nattering on about how nothing is getting done."

Adhemar gently guides Jocelyn back to the carriage. Christina's still there and she grips her lady's hands in sympathetic comfort.

He turns around and losing any form of compassion, he quietly adds, "Arrest these men."

* * *

Ugh. I have nothing to say historically. Literature-wise: I hate Jocelyn. Not the person, I love the actress. I just can't write her; I don't get "how" her character is; Adhemar too. Odd.

Chronicles Bailey: about the "Ring around the Rosie" thing. I knew I should have explained that comment; no, it's not about the plague. If you're interested go to then to "language" then the "literary legends" catergory.  
NamelessRose: Thanks for the review. It is tough writing in character, but Geoff is fun. Other characters though... evil eye at Jocelyn  
Destiny's Creator: Geoff/Will all the way! I'm a bit of a realist though, and it could never happen. Not unless they were both drunk... well, I don't want to give away the story! Wordiness? Slow paced? I agree on both topics. Essentially, I'm trying to explain just how Jozie and Geoff knew what was happening. The part with William and the rest is coming up really soon, probably next chapter. It'll really pick up then.

Disclaimer: A Knight's Tale belongs to Columbia Pictures, not me. "Let Forever Be" belongs to the Chemical Brothers. All other characters, unless noted, are mine.


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